Page 25 of The Child of Rue Royale
“Yeah, I just did it!” His face looked so vibrant as he spoke. “I found your card last week, so I woke up, looked at my father, and said, “You will never see me again.’” His Adam’s Apple moved, emotion taking control of him.
“I’m not sure if you remember my sentiment on fathers, but it’s not a joyful one.”
“Yeah. I remember,” he said while his eyes squinted with recollection. “French asshole fathers.”
“That’s right,” I said with a sneer, crossing a leg over the other. “My father is long gone from this world, and I still hate him.”
Bastian’s eyes widened at my words, and he opened his mouth to speak just as Jolie placed our drinks between us.
“Merci, Jolie,” I said as she stared relentlessly at Bastian. He was still something to stare at; in fact, he seemed more handsome than the last time I had seen him. Far more sober and more masculine.
“Where’s the speakeasy?” he questioned, and I pointed to the ceiling.
“Upstairs, but my mother is up there, and I’m avoiding her for the night.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She would have questions, like why was I wasting my time with a man who had sick blood? No, I wouldn’t let her ruin this for me. Not yet.
We bonded quickly, Bastian still as captivating from whence we first met. He fell quickly in love with the sights and sounds of the Vieux Carré and rented a room with a couple of single guys in the Quarter, getting a job as a furniture salesman on Rue Royale.
He loved to party, and party he did, quickly making friends throughout New Orleans, because Bastian was a good time. Everything I saw in him the first night we met rang true as I watched him dazzle women and men with his likeability, his spirit for fun, and pursuit for whatever he desired. Unfortunately, what he wanted most was liquor.
Though I understood why I gravitated to him, I didn’t understand why he enjoyed spending his time with me. I was neither friendly nor cheerful. But it seemed that amused him in some odd way. Seeing my annoyance, how I would deadpan so many of his jokes, tickled him. What an odd pair we made. He would spend his days working then joining me at Comey’s where I oversaw affairs in the evenings. But lately, there had been less and less to oversee. That was until Bastian brought a young man in to meet me.
“Name’s Piano Jack,” the almost man said, extending a long, thin arm.
“And how long have you been playing, Piano Jack?”
He smiled warmly and nodded. “Feels like since I could walk, but really since my Grandmere taught me to tickle the keys.”
“Cassius tickles the keys, too,” Bastian said, side-hugging me. I produced an aggravated glare and slid from his embrace. I wasn’t as comfortable with affection as Bastian was.
“Just wait.” Bastian winked, pulling out the bench for Piano Jack to take a seat.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Piano Jack smiled as he slid onto the bench, scooting it in and stretching his fingers.
“I was walking down St. Claude and heard it from one of the opened windows. Yelled inside and asked him to come with me. He just came, can you believe that?” Bastian’s green eyes twinkled, his grin infectious.
My face might nothave moved, but inside, I was amused by Bastian’s enthusiasm. And he was right. The young man had talent with the piano, playing in a loose, jazzy way that I could never seem to muster. The room filled with vibrant tunes as Bastian’s fingers snapped, Piano Jack’s head moving side to side. This man would draw a crowd, of that I was certain.
“Told you. Told you I could find someone to bring this place to life.”
I only stared at him, so he sighed dramatically.
“Loosen up, my friend,” he said as if that would work.
“Does it look like any part of me loosens?”
Bastian eyed me up and down, my hands firmly clasped in front of me. “Now that you mention it, no.” He laughed, and it forced a silent smile from me.
I walked over to Piano Jack, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Can you play for the evening? If we like what we see, you’re welcome to play a few nights a week.”
“Can do.” Piano Jack smiled, his fingers moving frantically across the keys.
“He’s trouble,” Nicola pined when she finally met Bastian, staring as he downed a glass of something dark at the bar, her cigarette burning between her fingers, her blonde hair up in a sophisticated chignon.
“We love trouble,” I said with a smirk, grabbing a lighter.
“What are you going to do with him? You can’t feed from him. He’s going to drink himself to death.”
“He makes me laugh.” Placing the cigarette in my mouth, I lit it, letting the smoke consume my lungs.
